


Over the Threshold

by Meowser_Clancy



Series: Assorted Jimel AUs [5]
Category: Ghost Whisperer
Genre: 1910, AU, F/M, Lace, Love, Period Piece, Roses, Time - Freeform, Wedding Dress, convenient marriage, edwardian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-08-09 00:39:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7780162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meowser_Clancy/pseuds/Meowser_Clancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1910 Convenient Marriage AU. When Tom Gordon asks James Clancy to marry his wayward daughter, none of them fully understand what they're getting into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

James Clancy wasn’t the richest man in the city of New York. Nor was he the best known, or the handsomest.

But in certain circles, he was definitely a favorite. He was easygoing, and you could call him a true friend. His smile alone was enough to make a man—or woman—like him well enough because it was infectious, it was real and genuine enough to make you believe he truly took joy in being with you at this moment.

He worked hard at what he did, but still took some time at his club every day; what man didn’t? What man didn’t need to?

And he was self made without acting like the nouveau riche; he had no sisters to humiliate him by looking around for a husband for themselves.

He was all alone in the world; sometimes people would mention a brother, but it was always understood that a tragedy had happened to his family, one with no touch of scandal, just tears, so it never became a topic for the gossip chains.

At thirty, he was unmarried, but there was no gossip there either; he occasionally showed an interest in one of the debutantes, or even the ladies considered spinsters, or even the younger widows, and it just never went anywhere.

“He’s searching for love,” the women would scoff, occasionally trying to set their daughters on him, but it never quite worked; he wasn’t the _biggest_ catch and his politeness was somehow worse than more valuable catches rudeness. Because he would be polite and very considerate to you but at the same time, during all of that, you could just tell that nothing would come of it; that you could drop your handkerchief dozens of times and he would pick it up, every single time, and it would still mean nothing to him because he wasn’t working for it. It was just his nature to help people, to be nice to them.

So this was the reason that Tom Gordon was finding him hard to gauge, why he’d been asking around for two weeks now as to what kind of man James Clancy really was, because he simply seemed too good to be true. If he wasn’t married yet, did he have mistresses? No, and neither did he visit whore houses...of the male or female kind.

Did he have some sort of character flaw to cause mothers to keep their daughters from him? No, again. All women gladly said they’d marry their daughters off to him without a second thought but he wasn’t interested.

What, Tom Gordon wondered, would capture James Clancy’s interest?

And would it be _his_ daughter, Melinda Gordon?

Because _someone_ had to marry Melinda. She was getting far too out of hand; Tom had desperately been trying to find someone who could marry her for weeks now, and kept coming up short.

It wasn’t just that she was nearly twenty-one, and still unmarried.

It wasn’t just that she had, rather stubbornly, refused two marriage proposals already, before the men even dared to approach Tom himself.

It wasn’t just that she was part of the women’s liberation movement, that she was a ‘suffragette’ because _honestly_ , other fathers and mothers had worked around _their_ daughters being scandals in that regard.

It was because she claimed she could see, and talk to, the dead. It was because she kept on sneaking out of the house to speak to an abominable professor Richard Payne to get his advice. It was because whenever Tom’s path collided with Richard, he could see the hunger in the other man’s eyes when he looked at Melinda, and he could see her future with Richard should they happen to marry.

Poor as a mouse, looked at and examined like one of his projects. Tom had no trust that Richard could truly love Melinda, lust though he may after her beauty and...peculiar talents.

So these were the reasons leading to Tom just giving up on trying to figure James Clancy out and simply inviting him to talk one day, and why James Clancy was currently being shown into his study, looking tall and handsome; capable.

Tom remembered that James had gotten his start in the railroad business, just selling newspapers in the stations, and wondered how much of that he’d taken with him over the years.

“Hello,” Tom greeted, rising and shaking James’ hand; he was impressed by the other man’s grip. “Tom Gordon.”

“James Clancy,” James replied, polite to the end, seating himself carefully on the other side of the desk .

“I’d like to get to know you better, James,” Tom began. “I know of you, and I have to admit to not being able to yet get a feel for your character.”

James smiled, a touch of confusion on his face. “Alright,” he said. “I suspect that you’ve brought me here to decide if you want to do business with me.”

“Exactly,” Tom said, smiling a little.

“Then go ahead,” James replied. “Though I wouldn’t have thought that you’d need the services of a newspaper man.”

“Well, that remains to be seen,” Tom said agreeably and James nodded, smiling again.

“What do you want to know?” James wondered.

“Well, what everyone wants to know of any new acquaintance,” Tom began. “Do you have any family living? Do you want your own?” He saw James startle at such questions and quickly continued. “Do you enjoy a cigar on a fine evening? Do you support women’s suffrage?” At this, Tom laughed outright. “Do you enjoy what you do for a living?”

He steepled his hands, and then started up. “Let me offer you a drink,” he began. “Loosen your tongue.”

“I don’t drink this early in the day, but thank you,” James said, in the tone of someone who has said the same thing hundreds of times.

Tom settled back. “Well, any answers?”

James leaned back in his chair. “My own question first, if I may?”

Tom nodded.

“May I just ask if you ask everyone these questions upon getting to know them?” James wondered.

“No, and that’s your only question,” Tom said. “Now may I get some answers?”

James’ eyes had narrowed; he was just looking at Tom, trying to figure him out, trying to decide if this was worth it. “My mother is still living,” he began. “My father and brother passed on early and we...don’t see each other as much as we perhaps should, but I put her up in a house in the country and I’m fine with things the way that they are. She’s not very fond of the newspaper business; she wished I’d gone into medicine.”

“Fair enough,” Tom said.

“And she wants me to start my own family,” James continued, eyes growing thoughtful, looking past Tom at the blooming garden outside the window. “I don’t...I’m not ready for that yet.”

“You have yet to sow your wild oats?” Tom wondered.

James smiled a little stiffly. “I have yet to determine if the noble institution is, in fact, worth it. I have written about and witnessed marriages fall apart; I have seen men like myself marry only to propagate children and, the full duration of the marriage, keep company with a mistress.” He licked his lips. “I have yet to see the point of it unless both parties are committed and I have not found a woman to whom I feel I could...commit.”

“Even fairer,” Tom said. “But that would change. If you found the right one. If you found...the right reasons.”

James just nodded. “Let me see,” he said a moment later. “Do I enjoy a cigar? If offered one yes, but my frugal nature won’t let me take up the habit for myself; it gets too expensive.”

“Well said,” Tom chuckled and pulled out a drawer in his desk. “Cigar?”

James shook his head.

“Do I support women’s suffrage?” He said aloud. “I wouldn’t say that I don’t. A woman has little enough power in the world, might as well let her have more. In the newspaper business, sometimes I wonder if men aren’t just ruining the country so why not let women have a chance to ruin it too—or perhaps better it?”

“But the movement itself is disrespectful,” Tom said, forgetting himself. “The women are mostly young girls influenced by a few old spinsters who couldn’t catch a man and so decided to get power instead. And why would you want a-a daughter or a sister...or even a wife involved in that nonsense?”

“Or a mother?” James said a bit coolly. “My mother is, in fact, an avid supporter of the liberation movement.”

Tom settled back into his seat, disappointed with this development, but pushing past it. Surely this would only make it easier for Melinda to reconcile herself to the idea of marriage with James.

“And do I enjoy what I do for a living…” James trailed off. “Yes. I think so. It’s a fast paced world and I haven’t yet reached the time when it makes me tired.” A frown appeared on his brow. “Not physically, anyway. Sometimes the state of the world makes me tired though, to think about it. To rue it.”

“Yes,” Tom said, drawing out the word. Sensitive. Well, he didn’t like it, but perhaps Melinda would. “And a few other questions. What do you think about the whole talk of the...spirit world? Ouija boards, that kind of ridiculousness?”

James was very puzzled now. “It’s not something I believe or disbelieve,” he said carefully.

“And to someone who did believe…?” Tom trailed off rather delicately, further confounding his guest.

“It would depend on the someone and what they believed,” James finally finished.

“I want to tell you about a girl,” Tom said and saw an odd smile quirk at James’ mouth; he’d finally figured out what the purpose of the visit was, and finally understood the line of questioning. “A girl who is heavily involved in the women’s liberation movement, is going terribly fast towards the point of scandal and ruin, who says she doesn’t wish to marry and is twenty-one and has refused two proposals so one might even believe her.” He took in a breath. “She professes a faith in the spirit world; I don’t know where she learned such nonsense but it’s all she’ll talk about anymore and she has taken up a very worrying habit of going to see the professor in charge of supernatural studies at Rockland University, which is, I believe, two hours out of the city; she takes the train there chaperoned and sees the professor unchaperoned, because my maids are not dependable and can be bribed, apparently, to let her be while she bothers him with nonsense questions.”

He was getting closer to losing himself.

“What would you think of such a girl?” Tom finally barked, just the thought of his daughter giving him a very deep headache.

“I’d think that she was your daughter, sir,” James said carefully and Tom burst out laughing, because the answer was very, very clever and not wrong at all.

“Too damn true,” Tom said, settling back into his chair, pouring _himself_ a glass of sherry because he needed to be level headed for this. “And what would you say if I asked you to marry her?”

“That without meeting her I couldn’t possibly agree to anything,” James said, a bit coolly, as if expecting the question; but Tom could see from James’ posture that he hadn’t expected the question at all, that his shoulders were back, as if expecting her to walk in at any moment. “What does she think of the idea?”

“She doesn’t know,” Tom muttered.

Jim surveyed the man in front of him; very much a harried father who only wanted what was ‘best’ for his progeny; he’d come across many a man like Tom Gordon but none had ever asked Jim to marry their daughter before.

He hesitated to pinpoint one reason why he disagreed to the match, not because they were numerous, but because he couldn’t _find_ one. For some inexplicable reason, this girl, the description Tom had given of her...sounded fascinating to him, made him sit straighter, wonder what she was like. Was she furious and ranting most of the time? Or was she, as he speculated, merely lonely, looking for love in any place she could find it, because in her father’s home, she most definitely wasn’t.

The spirit world. There had been a time when the very mention of that would start a yearning deep in Jim’s heart, hoping that, yes, there was such a thing; that he could have one more chance to speak to his father, his brother. And even now, he so keenly understood that desire that it only made him want to meet her more.

And women’s suffrage; again, that spoke to a woman looking to find validation in a world that would give her none; rights because her father allowed her nothing but his name and maybe a bit of money.

Those in and of themselves had Jim picturing an intelligent girl, one with just enough spirit to go and see a professor with questions she had; enough to attract at least two men enough to have them propose to her, and say no, but not enough to truly break away from her father, dare to live alone.

In the upper echelon, Tom Gordon’s daughter would be considered by most to be the lucky one, but Jim knew that the path of a rich man’s daughter was, perhaps, the narrowest of all to tread.

She probably wore glasses to read, and said no to the former proposals because she knew she wouldn’t be properly loved, he considered, feeling a brotherly fondness for the girl, almost wanting to say yes to Tom Gordon right now, because he hated the thought of the deep unhappiness that living this life would bring most girls...women.

But still, sight unseen, he had no idea what the girl was truly like. He had no idea if this picture in his head was completely wrong; she _could_ be the fire and brimstone that Tom was warning of and if she was, well, as much as Jim might understand her feelings, he couldn’t very well say that he could properly help her. She’d need more than husband then, and with Jim working so long and hard each week, simple freedom from her father wouldn’t be enough to free her spirit.

Tom was considering him. “You’re saying if you meet her, you’ll marry her?”

“I didn’t say that,” Jim said swiftly, but Tom was speaking over him.

“She’s not a bad looking thing,” he said. “Better than most suffragettes, which is the most infuriating part. I daresay she also _wants_ a husband or she wouldn’t be going to that idiot professor each week.”

“You’re saying she has feelings for him?” Jim managed to get a word in between Tom’s.

“I’m saying that it’s over my dead body that I’ll allow her to elope with him,” Tom said, a manic gleam in his eyes.

Which didn’t quite answer Jim’s question.

“When can we meet?” Jim asked.

“Give me your word,” Tom said. “That you’ll marry her.”

And no, he was not a fool.

Jim stood up, ready to go. “As much as I hate to say it, this is farewell.”

“Wait,” Tom said. “She’ll be back soon and I told my butler to show her into the study when she arrived.”

And Jim still wasn’t a fool.

“Just be fair,” Tom said. “Her name is Melinda.”

He was prepared to go, but as he took his gloves and hat, he heard a scuffle; turning he faced the door with Tom standing up with him to greet whoever was coming in.

The door was flung open and Melinda walked in, and she was both everything and nothing like Jim had expected. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: 
> 
> “I made an agreement,” Mr. Clancy said. “For the good of all involved.”


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided that it would be fun to add a 'Next time' for this story, since I have such a clear idea of where I'm going, and now I get to wind everyone up just a bit more :)

 

This new spirit was giving her more trouble than usual. Not that they weren’t all a huge mess, ones which only made her complicated life even more frenzied. 

Melinda Gordon got into the carriage her maid had hailed, and they sat in silence as it carried them home from the train station.

“I’m going to get in trouble,” Andrea said softly. “If I keep helping you like this. Your father has warned me numerous times to not let you do this again.” 

Melinda raised clear brown eyes to meet Andrea’s. “If you didn’t go with me, I would go alone, and I think my father knows me well enough to realize that by now. Your job is not in danger.” 

Andrea scoffed, turning back to the window. “Was it worth it?” She asked. “Seeing your professor?” 

The words were loaded and both women knew it.

“Not today,” Melinda sighed. 

Richard looked at her so oddly sometimes, like he still didn’t quite believe her. And she didn’t think that he did. Which she understood. Sometimes she didn’t want to believe herself, but, unlike him, she didn’t have a choice. Not since her grandmother had asked her to carry on her work as a mediator. Not since her grandmother had visited her after her own death, to beg Melinda to be strong and persevere, because people needed Melinda’s gift. 

She couldn’t and wouldn’t ever go back on the promise she’d made that day, grief in her heart so strong, but knowing that most people didn’t have the chance that she’d had in that moment: to say goodbye to her already dead, beloved grandmother. 

This man though, the spirit visiting her lately, was so troubled. Melinda wasn’t sure how to help him, wasn’t sure why he appeared in such odd circumstances, why she was dreaming more with him, why it was so disjointed and even violent. 

She didn’t like it. 

His brow had creased when she told him, something that didn’t go away when she finished speaking. “I feel like he’s trying to tell me how he died,” she’d finished. “But none of it makes sense. It’s a jungle. I’m running through a jungle and then life just stops.” 

Richard hadn’t been able to help; it was the first time he’d had nothing to offer. He’d come over though, placed a hand on her shoulder as she was about to leave. “Let me know if I can ever assist you in a different sort of matter,” he said. “Not involving ghosts. I would...be glad to help, Miss Gordon.” 

The words hadn’t made sense to her; she’d begun to see him a few months ago when a ghost was out of her depth, and she’d just needed someone who studied this sort of thing. She’d found him after careful questions poised to some of her father’s friends; who else could she ask? 

And then she’d taken the train ride to see him, Andrea accompanying her, both of them feeling trepidation to be going to this strange man’s office, but he had turned out to be harmless; next time Melinda went, she left Andrea in town. 

She was certainly a bit of an odd sight at the college, dressed as she was, obviously a rich young woman, and what could a woman such as her have to do with Professor Payne? 

She knew that there were rumors. But as long as there were ghosts in her life, there would be rumors. She had to accept that as a fact and move on. 

The carriage stopped in front of Melinda’s house and the two women hurried out as soon as the driver opened the door; Melinda hurried up the steps to the house and wondered if her father had noticed her absence; but surely not, why would he even be home? 

But there was Gabriel, opening the door and hiking an eyebrow at her. “Your father wants you in the study,” he said, not being a proper butler, but he’d never cared about that with her and Melinda was ever so grateful. 

She cursed under her breath, cursing that he was home, that he’d caught her so abysmally last time, that the result had been so terrible; how she’d had to tell him everything and how he’d almost forbade her from ever seeing Richard again. 

But it wasn’t like that. He thought she had feelings for Richard, but that was only because Melinda had tried so hard to skate over the real reason for her visits: ghosts. Which her father refused to admit existed, even though it was something that Melinda had talked about since she was a girl; she wasn’t going to outgrow it simply because he told her to. She couldn’t, plain and simple. It didn’t work that way. 

It had been a choice, though. Tell him the bare truth and have him be even angrier or fudge a few things and let him think she had met Richard at a party and fell for the man. 

Which most definitely had not happened. 

“Why?” She asked, as Andrea just rolled her eyes and walked to the servants entrance, abandoning Melinda.

She deserved it, but  _ still _ . 

“I believe he’s finally done it,” Gabriel said. “Gone out and found you a husband, anything to keep you away from that Professor Payne.” 

Her eyes widened, because  _ yes _ , her father had said something to that effect last month, but she’d  _ never  _ thought he’d go through with it. And besides, the idea of her marrying Richard was so beyond ridiculous...oh god, she should have thought her tales last month all the way through. 

“Who is he?” Melinda wondered. “Why the devil…” 

Gabriel handed her the man’s card. 

**James Clancy**

“He made his money in the newspaper business,” Gabriel said. “He must be thirty by now.” 

“What kind of troll is he?” Melinda said, missing the flash of amusement in Gabriel’s eyes as he wound her up, quite deliberately. “That he has to buy a wife?”

Gabriel just shrugged, a smile pulling at his mouth that Melinda still missed. 

“They’re in there, right now,” Melinda said, inhaling. “And my father told you to show me there as soon as I arrived?” 

“Most definitely, at the risk of losing my job,” Gabriel said, shrugging when Melinda huffed. 

She walked towards her father’s study, irritation in every step, not letting Gabriel beat her there.

“I have to announce you,” Gabriel said.

“I have no intention of giving this old troll a good impression of me,” Melinda said. “Maybe if I’m horrid enough he’ll lose interest.” 

“Melinda,” Gabriel said, too panicked to even use the proper Miss Gordon. “He isn’t—” 

She arched her eyebrow at him, perhaps looking a tad too much like her father for a brief moment; Gabriel fell back and Melinda reached for the door handle.

It was simple. She just had to act like her father’s worst envisioning of her: militant suffragette, believer of the occult and an all around wild girl. 

Then any man was sure to lose interest.

* * *

 

Gabriel, however, wasn’t so sure of this plan. Her color was up, and her eyes were vibrant; when she’d taken off her hat, she’d revealed the mass of brown curls that was one of her best assets, the dress was very flattering on her, perfect on her figure…it didn’t help that she’d cast off her jacket and now there was only white blouse, which strained at every infuriated inhale. 

Gabriel privately thought that her plan of going in there with all guns blazing might have the very opposite effect: he wouldn’t be surprised if the not-at-all-troll-like James Clancy fell in love with Melinda the moment she walked in.

If he wasn’t the kind of man who was more attracted to James, he might have fallen in love with Melinda himself.

* * *

 

She cast the door open, planning on being her father’s worst nightmare, but good god, who was the man standing in front of her father’s desk, most definitely not a troll? Most definitely tall and so handsome that she stepped back, momentarily startled. 

His lips parted as he stared at her, eyes so blue she couldn’t breathe to have them on her, large hands on his hat and gloves. 

Why hadn’t Gabriel taken his hat and gloves? Melinda wondered inanely, still speechless. 

“Melinda,” her father said, and her anger at her father flared back to life, bringing her back to her senses. 

“Father,” she said coolly, closing the double doors behind her, leaning on them and then pushing herself forward. 

“Melinda,” her father repeated. “I’d like you to meet—” 

“No,” Melinda said flatly. 

“Pardon?” Tom said.

“This is a new age,” Melinda said, her gaze shooting to a still startled Mr. Clancy. “You cannot sell me to the highest bidder, our world has moved beyond that.” 

Was she crazy or was that a smile twitching at the man’s lips? 

Tom was looking angry already; new age, one of the key words. 

“Melinda, please settle down,” he said. “You haven’t even met him yet.” 

And oh, she wasn’t going to play the obedient daughter.

She whirled to face Mr. Clancy, sticking out her hand, hearing her father’s angry gasp. Well, if Mr. Clancy was a man, he’d shake her hand, treat her as an equal. 

“Melinda Gordon,” she said. “Not your future bride.” 

“James Clancy,” he said coolly, his hand sliding into hers, giving it one, firm shake; he had the grip of a newspaper man, though she’d never shaken the hand of a newspaper man before, she felt it in the depths of her heart, the part of her stomach that jumped to life when he touched her. 

She felt his fingers pressing into her wrist where her pulse was, and it spiked in response. He gave her a cool smile before pulling his hand away. 

“So,” Melinda began, turning to face her father again. “Have you decided on a price yet?” 

“Maybe I shouldn’t be here for this,” Mr. Clancy said slowly. 

_ Coward _ , Melinda thought.  _ Bargaining to buy me and he can’t even stick around once I’m here. _

“Wait,” Tom said, holding up a hand to both of them; she saw the cool rise of Mr. Clancy’s brow, he had no intention of waiting. “Melinda, I didn’t want to have to do this, but I will cut you off if you refuse to marry this man. And Mr. Clancy, I know we haven’t set terms yet, but—” 

“I’ll marry her,” Mr. Clancy said. 

The study went silent. Melinda felt her heart pound in a new, strange way. The words were claiming, startling, heart stopping. 

Her mouth was suddenly dry.

“Good,” Tom said, shrinking a little, obviously surprised by the words. “I, uh, will let you two alone for a moment then, let you get to know each other.” 

With that, he slipped from the study.

Melinda had no idea what to even think when her father was gone, struck dumb into silence, turning slowly from where she’d watched him leave to face Mr. Clancy again. 

She couldn’t tell what he was thinking at all.

“What on earth did you just do?” She asked, trying to keep her voice from shaking. 

“I made an agreement,” Mr. Clancy said. “For the good of all involved.” 

“ _ My  _ good?” Melinda asked, her voice getting higher. “It is for my good that you supersede any decision I might make myself in this matter?” 

“Your father’s choice in the matter rather settled it,” he said, looking her straight in the eye. “I’d rather you didn’t ruin yourself by standing aside and letting him cut you off. Your reputation would never recover and even if you think you won’t mind that now, in the future, you might change your mind.” 

She couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. 

“His reasons for wanting you to be married were...unusual but valid,” Mr. Clancy continued. “I listened to his thoughts on the matter and decided for myself if I wanted to help you.” 

“Help me?” She almost spat the words. 

His eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly. “Miss Gordon, I don’t think you realize how narrow your choices are,” he said. “I have seen it over and over again in my line of work. A rich girl makes an unwise match simply to displease her parents; unfailingly, she regrets it. Her life is ruined and she is left with no way to return to her previous life. I’d rather that did not happen to you.” 

“Why would I want to return to this life?” Melinda said, throwing her hands up, trying to latch onto one thing he said as being wrong but he was being entirely too reasonable, too cool headed, too much like he’d actually thought about this and truly thought he was doing her a favor. 

A  _ favor _ . 

He was stepping closer, and she swallowed, backing up until her hips touched her father’s desk behind her. He noted it and stopped immediately, perhaps taking a step back himself to give her space. 

“I wouldn’t be a cruel husband,” he said, and reached to touch her hand. “I would respect you in any decision you made, even…” His eyes flashed and she flushed as his gaze briefly traveled over her before shooting back to her face, as if the move had been entirely unintentional. “Even barring me from the marriage bed.” 

“You don’t seek children then?” Melinda asked, her hands clinging to the desk behind her to keep her standing because good god, this man was having an entirely unprecedented effect on her. 

“I never said you wouldn’t be allowed to go back on a decision once made,” he said, and the implication in his words made her eyes go wide, made her breath come even faster. 

“And you think that if I made such a decision, I would also be compelled to unmake it?” Melinda managed to say. 

The smile on his lips made her whole body itch to move towards him. 

“Your father says you have a...fondness or interest in the occult,” he said, backing away from her, readying himself to leave. “That intrigues me. But, alas, I have a meeting to get to. Will you be free tomorrow?” 

“In the morning, why do you ask?” Melinda said. 

“I’d like to give you a ring,” Mr. Clancy replied, his gaze falling to her hands, reaching to take one. “They are small,” he said, words contemplative. “I’ll have to get it resized.” 

And, as she watched, he pressed a kiss to the fingers he held in his own. “Until tomorrow then,” he said quite simply. “My fiance.” 

She jerked her hand away from him, still feeling the fingers he’d kissed burning from the sensation, from how hot his mouth had been. 

He turned and left the study; her father came back in. 

“Well,” he said. “Before you go off on me again, Melinda, I’m doing this for your own good. I will not have you end up the wife of a penniless professor.” 

She looked at her father in disbelief, her foggy mind finally clearing, and she laughed out loud. 

She couldn’t imagine Richard Payne ever being farther from her mind. 

“We’ll see about that, all of it,” she said, and swept from the study, gathering her skirts in her hands and running up the stairs, closing the door to her bedroom behind her with a finality, running to the window of her room that overlooked the street.

He was a newspaperman, she remembered.

She wondered if he had an automobile. 

She hated herself for softening towards him in even one regard. The man was...was...well, she wanted to say domineering, and yes, he had made a choice that she didn’t like, yet he was saying it for the best reasons…

He was too self assured. That was it. 

And yet she didn’t like people who weren’t confident in themselves and their own personal abilities. 

She pressed her hand to her lips, imagining she could taste him on it. 

She had never felt like this before; she didn’t want to feel like it, not for him. He wouldn’t understand, about the ghosts. He’d never understand. And even if she didn’t love Richard, even if the only reason she even considered it was because people kept suggesting it to her, she’d rather be the wife of someone who  _ knew _ . 

But this was silly. Why would Richard even consider marrying her? That wasn’t even in the realm of realistic possibility. 

So that left her two choices. Let her father cut her off, try to live on her own, nonexistent income, and that would mean getting a job, and that would mean losing most of the avenues by which she helped people. 

Or marry James Clancy, a choice which was more appealing every second she thought about it. She wouldn’t be under her father’s hand anymore. 

She knew that, even if she ended up choosing the second option, she still needn’t let him know that. Even if she was going to let herself be ready, that didn’t mean she’d ever let that fact onto him.

And his audacity. Why on earth, if given the choice, would any woman submit to the terrors of the marriage bed? What power on earth could sway her choice in that, if she had one? 

Innocent that she was, she didn’t realize that she’d already felt and witnessed the one power: lust. Desire. Love. 

She went to her vanity, leaning over it. 

Her emotions were churning and her mind started to spin, creating a yet fictional life for her as James Clancy’s wife.

There was no way he didn’t have an automobile, she finally decided. He was a newspaperman, and a damned good one, by the expense of his clothes. He’d have only the finest, newest things.

Suppose he let her learn how to drive it? Suppose she had that unlimited freedom available to her? 

He’d said he would abide by any decision she made.

Melinda wondered to what extent that promise would stretch. 

She’d have to ask him about that. 

The thought halted her, made her laugh again, a bit desperately, because she knew that, in her mind and heart, in every area that counted, she’d already determined to marry the man. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time:
> 
> "The one decision of yours I won’t abide by is you being unfaithful, emotionally or physically."


	3. Part Three

Melinda didn't really sleep that night, spending half of it awake and dreaming—er, worrying—about seeing Mr. Clancy the next morning.

And once she had drifted off into a fitful sleep, her current ghost ended that pretty quickly, and she woke up about midnight, her heart pounding like it had never before; sweat seeming to coat her entire body, wracked with trembling.

She'd been in a jungle. Her dreams had never been this intense before.

And she didn't really sleep after that either.

* * *

"Mr. Clancy," Gabriel announced, showing him into the morning room.

Melinda was already seated there, tense, wondering that her father didn't insist on a chaperone for this; then again, most girls had mothers to do this with them; it was likely that such a task just slipped her father's mind.

Gabriel slipped from the room again, and Mr. Clancy was just standing there in the doorway for a moment, waiting to see if he'd greet her, but the sight of him in her receiving room made her feel, quite honestly, a bit weak in the knees; she finally stood up in one graceful movement, extending her hand.

"Mr. Clancy," she greeted.

"Miss Gordon," he murmured, something showing in his eyes, before he reached to take her hand; she prepared for another brisk handshake like yesterday but he was raising it to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to the knuckles; and yet from the way her hand burned, it wasn't chaste at all.

She pulled her hand away, saw the amusement on his face, as he watched her sit down on the large couch again, gesturing for him to sit in the chair opposite her.

Instead he sat down next to her—leaving plenty of space between them, but still on the same piece of furniture.

"I wanted to do this properly," Mr. Clancy began, looking at her; she didn't meet his gaze and he fell silent, until she looked up at him and he smiled at her. "Look at me," he said gently. "Otherwise it's not right."

Her cheeks colored a vibrant red, yet she somehow managed to look at him, hold his gaze.

He reached for her hand; she pulled it into her lap and he just smiled, his own hand falling back. "My mother always told me to say this when I had found the woman I wanted to marry," he began.

And this made her react, her head flying up again, her voice bursting free. "You want to marry me?" She said. "Why? What do you get out of it? What did my father pay you for yesterday?"

His eyes narrowed. "He didn't pay me anything," he said, voice almost steely.

She faltered, not really understanding this, settling back into herself.

Mr. Clancy cleared his throat. "There was a book that was published a few years before my father met my father," he said. "Far From the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy. It was one of my father's favorites, and he used a line to...to propose to her," he continued, his eyes a bit distant. "This is what I hope from marriage, Miss Gordon. At home by the fire, whenever you look up there I shall be— and whenever I look up, there will be you."

His eyes were bluer than she remembered, and she couldn't pull her gaze away from his, and her lips were slowly parting; her mouth was dry and she ran her tongue over her lips, missing how his gaze shot there, how he suddenly straightened just a little more where he sat.

"I didn't accept any money from your father and nor do I plan to, even though I am sure he will offer," Mr. Clancy continued, his voice deep, getting softer. "If I plan to marry you, it won't be for money."

"If?" She asked, again finding herself only managing to latch onto one of the many things he said. His gaze was too intense, too blue, and his hands were again moving towards hers, and she tried to pull back but he took her hand in his.

"This was my mother's ring," he said. "My father saved for months to get money for it; he wanted her to have the best. She gave it to me when...when my father passed."

A cloud was on his face, and he was having trouble finding the words.

Her hand stopped struggling in his; this moment meant too much to him. "I had it resized yesterday, a jeweler friend…" Mr. Clancy was licking his lips, trying to find words. "If the ring doesn't please you, you can pick out another one. Miss Gordon…" His gaze shot up to her face, instead of where it had been focused on their now entwined hands. "Melinda. Let me ask you this formally, and you can...answer anything you must."

Her heart was thudding almost painfully in her chest, and she suddenly ached to know what it would feel like to have his hands on her shoulders, pulling her close, making her feel loved...how it would feel to have his large hands on her waist while they waltzed.

"Will you...marry me?" He asked, his eyes meeting hers, his lips twitching up to a smile. "Will you be my wife?"

She'd spent the whole morning dreaming up things to say when he gave her the ring, sarcastic, smart things, but he'd struck her dumb.

She felt tears welling in her eyes, feeling as touched as if...as if he really meant it.

That cleared her mind a little. "Yes," she managed to say. "James. I will marry you."

The words were stilted, and she hated how they sounded; cold and unsure.

But the look of surprise...and pleasure...on his face made her wonder how he'd heard them, and he was slipping a ring on her finger, then sliding his hands away, letting her go.

She missed the weight of his hands in her lap as soon as it was gone, ducking her head to look at the ring. It was a golden jewel, perhaps a citrine; Melinda really didn't know what it would be called, offset by two tiny pearls, on a strong silver band.

It was beautiful.

She found that there was a genuine smile on her face, that there was an undeniable thrill in wearing an engagement ring, to declare yourself off limits to the rest of the world, to declare that a man had wanted you enough to place a ring on your fingers to declare you his.

She looked up, and she could see the emotion on his face that he wasn't really trying to hide; this moment meant something to him and he wasn't afraid to show it.

And she wanted to kiss him, if only because it seemed like the proper thing to do, because you kissed when you were proposed to.

She found herself moving closer to him, and his gaze on her softened, his eyelids drooped and he was leaning closer as well, as the sounds in the room seemed to drop, and she could only hear his breath and the thrum of her own heart.

She turned away at the last moment, and he made an odd sound before pulling back, clearing his throat.

"We should talk terms," Melinda said matter of factly. "Mr. Clancy."

* * *

He closed his eyes, trying to breathe, trying to not himself forget where he was, with who he was.

"We're engaged," he said softly. "Surely you can bring yourself to call me James."

"Is that what you'd prefer?" She asked stiffly, color high on her cheeks, posture stiff.

She looked so beautiful sitting there, had from the moment he'd walked in and seen her fair face again, felt the same drop in his heart as he realized what he was getting into—a loveless marriage with the most bewitching woman he'd ever met.

And yet he wanted this. Wanted it fiercely. He'd only realized after leaving how much saying those words yesterday in the study had meant to him.

I'll marry her.

He wanted to and that fact still astounded him, and yet it didn't surprise him, because he'd truly never known someone like her, with her peculiar convictions and her fierceness, how the suffragette thing wasn't just a way to rebel against her father, no, that was the ghosts; the women's rights movement was something she actually believed in.

And he'd gone home, fetched the ring and almost begged Bobby to resize it that night, paying him double what the task would normally be; Bobby had looked at him so oddly, obviously holding back questions as to whom Jim had met and why there was such a hurry.

And he couldn't help it, he'd been up half the night, literally pacing his bedroom, trying to think of what he'd say when he went back to see her the next day because he didn't want to ruin things. He wanted to make it as easy for her as possible and yet...he'd still wanted to be her choice.

When he'd decided to actually ask, he hadn't expected a yes, or at least not a graceful one.

But, though her voice had faltered, as had her gaze, she had said yes, a definite yes, an answer that she most definitely meant.

And his ring was on her finger, which rested carefully on her lap.

Jim's hands missed the feel of her fingers entwined in them.

"I'd prefer Jim," he began. "But that can wait until we're married."

Her eyes flashed, and she sharply inhaled, and he tried to keep his eyes off of what that did for her figure but it was very hard. "Very well, James," she said, edging a bit away from him. "Do you have a horseless carriage?"

"Yes, I do own an automobile," Jim replied.

"Really?" She said, head shooting up, eagerness in her voice. "Could we take a drive in it? I've so been wanting to, but father…"

Her voice trailed off and she looked away from him, a flush on her cheeks.

"Of course we could," he said easily. "I don't have time today, but tomorrow afternoon I could come here to take you out for a spin."

"Would I need special outerwear?" She asked, voice quiet. "I...I don't have any, my father refused to buy any."

"I can find a driving coat for you to wear," he said, heart softening even more towards her. "You just need to put your strongest pins in your hat; believe me, it will fly off if you don't. And if you have one with a veil, that would be a good idea."

"Alright," she said, a smile in her voice. "Would you teach me how to drive? Once we're married, I suppose."

His heart seemed to stop beating in the moment he imagined her behind the wheel of a car. "We'll see," he said smoothly, and thankfully, she took that for what it was.

"Call me Melinda," she said a moment later. "Since we're engaged, you should call me Melinda."

He couldn't help his smile; she was so awkward about this whole thing. "Is that what you'd prefer?" He teased her and her gaze shot to him, wondering if he was making fun of her, and he certainly wasn't.

"It's preferable to 'my fiance'," she snapped. "Now I feel like we should talk more about what you'll expect of me once I'm your wife."

He felt burned, just a bit shaken by how she'd refused to let him jest, refused to accept the same words she'd thrown at him.

"You'll be my wife," he said simply, haltingly. "You'll oversee my household, you'll go out with me as my wife, you will do everything that a wife does."

"That is what you wish of me?" She said, voice tight.

What a strange way to phrase it. "That is what marriage means for all women," he said softly. "You can do whatever you wish in your free time. I'm not going to chain you to my desk by any means."

"Is there anything you won't allow me to do?" She asked.

"Allow you?" He returned, not liking this language, before reading closer into her words: she was trying to figure out the bare minimum that she'd have to do. "You can choose to do whatever," he said. "I'll give you the money, even, as long as it's not an extreme request, but you don't seem like the kind of woman who'd spent my whole bank account on one shopping trip."

She sniffed a little, turning away from him, briefly shattering Jim's forced calm.

"The one decision of yours I won't abide by is you being unfaithful, emotionally or physically," he snapped. "If you never let me into your bed, so be it, but if that means that you are going elsewhere for your emotional and physical needs, I will not abide by that."

Her cheeks were bright red; he wondered if she knew anything about what the marital bed contained. "Then I ask the same of you," she blurted. "Since it's not like I shall ever have any say in what you do but I must ask you before I do anything."

"I didn't say that," he said, forcing his tone to be calm.

"Will you vow it?" She managed, not looking at him.

"Yes," he said.

She exhaled in a rush, turning her head to meet his gaze. "I don't think you have much time left; surely you need to be getting to work, surely you're busy if you're so successful?"

He forced himself to laugh, to take humor in it, to stop letting it hurt. She was young, she'd grow up, and he still, still, didn't wish upon her the fate she'd have if she married someone else who wouldn't see her as she was.

He stood up, realizing rather sharply that this was not what he'd ever planned for when he proposed to a woman; that about this time he'd always expected them to be stealing kisses, that she'd be overflowing with happiness and love for him, as he would for her.

Instead he was leaving in more than a bit of a rush, both of them unsatisfied, possibly even angry with the other. "I can be here at two tomorrow," he said. "If you wish to go for a ride in my automobile."

He could see how torn she was, how what she wanted was getting in the way of her thirst to not be vulnerable or show any sort of emotion.

"Alright," she said, and he felt another stab of something.

"Alright what?" He wondered. "Do you wish to go?"

"Yes, I'd like to go for a ride," she said, the words said in a rush, and he found himself smiling, a smile that he didn't like to feel on his face.

"Two, then," he said, and left the room.

* * *

If he was honest with himself, Jim didn't expect her to come down the next day; he expected her to change her mind and just leave him hanging outside just for spite, but when he raised his hand to knock on the door, it was already opening and Melinda was slipping outside, closing the door quickly behind her and smiling nervously up at him.

"Hello," she said, her eyes lighting up when she saw the automobile behind him. "James."

"Good afternoon, Melinda," he said simply, seeing the energy in her; she was practically bouncing up and down. "Do you have a chaperone?"

"We're engaged, why bother?" She wondered, hurrying down the steps, every part of her anatomy seeming to bounce in ways that made Jim feel dizzy.

He walked down the steps after her, finally not caring, deciding to take this Melinda at face value. She waited impatiently while he pulled out the extra driving coat, noticing her hat and inwardly sighing. There was no veil as he'd cautioned but, knowing Tom Gordon, that probably wasn't her fault.

He helped her into the coat; he'd done this with his mother at times, when she hadn't had a coat available and it had been so natural and something he didn't even think about, but now he found himself staring at Melinda's bare neck under her tightly pinned hair and hat, and dreaming about pressing a kiss to it. His hands felt heavy as he helped her slide her arms in, moving slowly to prolong the oddly intimate moment.

He moved around, hands reaching to button it, but she was batting them away. "I can do it," she said, dismissing him, cheeks again bright red.

He just nodded, waiting for her to finish, and then opened the door for her, suddenly wishing he had a carriage and a reason to help her up into it, but she was scrambling inside, and he shut the door after her, walking around to the other side and getting in himself, putting his goggles back on; he could sense Melinda looking at him, tense and silent suddenly, eagerness gone.

Was it because he'd climbed in with her?

He fought back a sigh and started the car, missing the gasp from her as the engine thrummed to life, looking behind him before pulling away from the curb, and going down the street.

Her hands were curled into fists, and Jim slowed a bit, wondering if she was actually scared right now, and not pouting as he'd thought.

"I was thinking we'd go out into the countryside a little, escape from the city," he said, shouting a little to be heard.

She didn't say anything so he took it to be a yes; they continued down the road, gradually leaving the city behind with a huge bump in the road; Jim was used to it and steeled himself for it, but Melinda shrieked and grabbed his arm, clinging to him.

And she was scared, leaving Jim to feel like a heel, but oh god, she was pressing herself so tightly into him, holding tight, fingers digging into his arm.

"Do you want to slow down?" He asked and felt her nod against him, ending up just pulling over entirely, turning the car off, leaving just the two of them.

Her breathing was loud, harsh, and her eyes were huge in her face; she was still clutching his arm, holding on in a death grip.

"Are you alright?" He asked, softening his voice. "I'm sorry, I didn't think."

"I'm fine," she managed, and he'd never seen her so pale. "I just underestimated...well, everything. The noise, the speed, the roughness."

"I didn't think," he repeated. "I don't have to go so fast."

She just nodded, looking at him with wide eyes again, just gazing up at him, and he stared down at her, his fiance, realizing that this was the closest they'd ever been.

She was so close; the press of her body was incredible and he felt like he could feel every one of her curves, and she was there and warm and he found that her pull was too much, turning his head, feeling himself lower his lips, seeing how wide her eyes were, and he was so tense, reaching one hand to cup her face and then she was pulling back, wide eyed, and he felt something inside of him plummet, trying to calm his breathing, slowly pulling himself back.

"We could try again, slower this time," he said, not looking at her; she'd scooted all the way over on the seat.

"Alright," she said, and they started again.

She was slowly loosening up; he could see it, feel it, and he eased the car faster; she didn't even notice.

There was finally a smile on her face, and then a laugh tumbled from her mouth, one of pure joy, uninhibited, and she was turning to face him. "This is amazing," she said, the wind buffeting her hat. "Can we try it faster now? I don't think I'm sc—I mean, can we try it faster?

He chuckled, and then fully laughed, turning to smile at her before he could help himself and...somehow...she smiled back, again one of pure joy.

"It's incredible," she told him. "I...thank you. James."

Somehow the way she tacked the James on, oh so reluctantly, just made his smile bigger, his heart warmer.

* * *

They were happy, somehow. The automobile was moving and Melinda could suddenly easily, joyfully, picture this as being part of her life from now on; if they did this when married, well, marriage wouldn't be a chore at all.

She looked at James out of the corner of her eye, seeing how relaxed he was, pleased to be showing this to her, to be with her as she first experienced it.

The wind was buffeting her hat, pulling at it; she and Andrea hadn't been sure about how many pins they'd need and she reached a hand up to hold onto it as James let the car gradually go faster; she found herself letting go of it, dropping her hands to hold onto the seat, looking at him, again, feeling as though time stilled in a brief moment; seeing how vivid he was, how real, how solid.

He turned to glance at her, and she cried in pain as the wind finally the pins from her hair, and her hat went whipping away.

James stopped the car rather abruptly; Melinda was already clambering out of the car because her father would notice if she came back without a hat and it was not worth the scandal and trouble to be seen without it in town.

James was running also; there was a low stone wall enclosing an orchard and Melinda didn't think twice to climb over it, not quite struggling, and a moment later, James, behind her, just vaulted over it, something she definitely noticed.

She had a sudden, odd feeling that he was no longer pursuing the hat so much as he was pursuing her, as they went deeper into the orchard, seeing the apple trees in full bloom; they were surrounded by apple blossoms and Melinda was jumping, trying to catch her hat, but one last gust of wind swept it out of her reach, until it collided with a tree and stuck in the branches.

James was there behind her, taking off his goggles and hat, his gloves and coat, and she didn't know why but her body was reacting quite viscerally to see him undressing; why, she didn't know, but the ripple of his muscles was making her react in entirely new ways as he cast his coat aside.

"I can get it," he said. "Don't worry."

"I'm not," she said quite simply and the simple confidence—James turned to stare at her for a moment, and then she really couldn't breathe because she felt like he'd never looked at her like this.

And then he was grabbing hold of a lower branch, hoisting himself up into the tree, and she clapped a hand to her mouth because otherwise she was sure that a rather embarrassing gasp would escape; that or a moan. The word that was in her mind was virile; he was incredibly...virile.

And he was so ably climbing the tree, grabbing each branch, not faltering, until he'd grabbed her hat and let it float down to her, then merely going to a lower branch and jumping down, powerful legs catching him, bracing him as he landed.

"We had to guess about the pins," Melinda told him, explained to him. "I'm sorry for ruining our ride."

And he was walking forward, his hands reaching towards her, cupping her face in his and he was leaning in close. "You didn't ruin anything," he breathed, and she turned her head; his lips touched her cheek.

She heard a strangled sound escape from him, expecting him to pull away, but his lips were on her cheek, hot; his lips were parting and he was kissing down to her ear, making her shiver in quite a shocking way, making her feel dizzy and both warm and cold at the same time.

And then his arms were moving, sliding around her, pulling her close, and just holding her there in an embrace.

"We can chase after your hats as much as needed," he whispered, his lips near her ear, making her moan, a sound that made him still, body stiffening, and then he was pulling away, bending to pick up his things and the view of his...backside made her eyes widen and her heart beat quite a lot faster.

My god, what this man was doing to her. All these emotions and she honestly didn't know how to handle any of them.

And then he was straightening and she was holding tight to her hat and they were leaving the orchard, getting back to his automobile, climbing in and driving home.

* * *

Negotiations had been reached and Jim was left feeling ever more like, though her best interests at heart Tom Gordon might have, the man had no idea who his daughter was or what she needed.

Yes, he agreed that a disastrous marriage made to spite her father or just to feel free would be, well, a disaster, but neither did he think that meant Melinda should have to sacrifice so much.

He was suddenly left feeling like a heel, remembering his words in the study, saying that he'd marry her.

Even if she'd said yes the next day...well, maybe that wasn't entirely the most free yes.

As they grew closer, or as Jim imagined they grew closer, because every damn time, every outing, every drive, every walk in the garden, left him desperately wanting to kiss her, coming damn well close and Melinda skirting his advances…as they spent more time together, though, he wanted, more and more, to be Melinda's choice. For her yes to him to have been completely and utterly...willing. Passionate. True. Heartfelt.

He wanted her to want him as much as he wanted her. Wanted her.

He couldn't let himself put a stronger label on it than that, because already seeing her made his heart jolt in his chest to the extent that he wondered if he was going crazy.

If he was a better man, he realized, he would never have said in the study with Tom. Because the reason he'd said yes was to have Melinda all to himself.

And this was what he realized when he first saw Richard Payne looking at his fiance.

That no matter what the man was like, James didn't want him anywhere near Melinda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: 
> 
> "Maybe this isn't the wedding night I dreamed of either."


	4. Part Four

 

Andrea helped her pick out a dress; they went to the dressmaker's together with her father's strict instructions to get something 'he'd be proud of her' in; Melinda had no idea how to take that because if wearing something was how to make her father proud, she was even more confused than ever.

James' eyes had lit up when she mentioned it, and he'd again grown amorous; it had been another visit that ended with his lips dangerously near hers and she'd, again, skirted him.

She wasn't sure why, honestly. They were engaged, and from how her body reacted to his closeness, it seemed that it would be enjoyable, in a kind of nervewracking way.

Would she enjoy it? Because enjoyment of something had never before included feeling her knees go weak, or her thighs pounding together in a way that thoroughly alarmed her.

But when his arms were around her, whenever he helped her with something, and his body was close to hers, she went absolutely, completely wild; she could tell how wide her eyes were, and how hot her cheeks; she felt limp and like she was about to melt from the utter heat of him.

And his arms. He had such big arms; they'd been in public and he'd just slid one arm around her waist as they walked around a garden party, and she'd felt everyone's eyes on her from how closely he was holding her.

And she saw the smiles.

They were fooling people; she'd realized what he was trying to do and she'd pulled away from him, angry at how he was trying to manipulate her; manipulate them.

He hadn't protested, but she'd felt the disapproval in his eyes; Rick had been there and she'd gone to speak to him, and it wasn't anger in his gaze when he surveyed them; Jim didn't seem to get angry but there was a clear dissatisfaction.

And Rick had seemed so confused by her engagement; he'd acted so strangely, saying something odd about how she should have told him.

Told him what?

Melinda had no idea but her father had spied Rick then and almost literally chased the man away.

And here it was, Melinda Gordon's wedding day.

It didn't seem real. She woke up with a stomach ache, something that stayed as Andrea and Lolita and Jane helped her dress; all of their employed maids; Lolita was a beautiful Spanish girl who did Melinda's hair in a cascade of curls which were then tightly pinned up; what was the point of the curls if she was just to end up with them up anyway?

Sometimes she hated what was proper. She would have looked so much better with her hair down but that wasn't allowed. Or at least it was frowned on.

The dress was gorgeous, she had to admit, hesitantly touching the soft material, feeling dirty, like she wasn't fit to wear it, because of how fake this was, how untrue.

But she looked beautiful.

She'd make her father proud, she thought a bit bitterly, as the veil was settled onto her head.

They were getting married.

She was getting married, to a man she didn't really know.

She was getting married, to a man that she certainly held...unique...feelings for but she couldn't call them love.

Or could she?

Come to think of it, Melinda didn't really know what love was, or how it felt, considering that she'd never really experienced it. Not really. Not properly.

Not for a long, long time. Not in a way she could remember it.

The veil was lowered over her face, and she looked at the world through a haze of white lace.

It made everything look so beautiful.

It turned her life into something lovely and precious, and not just something to bargain with.

She walked unseeingly into the church foyer; her father was waiting there and he took her arm tightly in his, holding her close by his side. "I'm so proud that this day came for us," he said softly. "For you, my precious daughter."

"Precious," Melinda choked out.

"Yes, my dear," he said. "You know I only want what's best for you. And this...James will be good to you, he understands your...your whims and desires, your odd little flights of fancy. And he'll cater to them."

Melinda just shook her head, looking up at the church doors to see a spirit standing there, smiling at her; an old priest.

"It's not that hard, I'm told," he said softly. "Getting married. Mind you, I never did but I married dozens and dozens of couples. They were all mostly happy." He appeared next to her; she looked over her shoulder, tears about to pour down her face, ready to spill over. "You might be too. Let it surprise you. Marriage is a jump in the dark for all men and women, no matter how well they know each other...or don't know."

He winked and vanished again.

Melinda felt the tears pour down her cheeks as the organ music started; the veil was hiding her face and no one noticed as the doors opened and her father led her up the aisle; she moved stiffly but the dress mostly covered that; no one could tell how haltingly she was moving.

And James was there, waiting at the front.

She forced the tears away; they reached the altar and her father was about to lift the veil up but her tears weren't that far away and she shook her head; he merely kissed her through the veil. "It'll be fine," he said. "Over in a second."

Over in a second? What did he think marriage was?

And just because his marriage had lasted such little time…

But then again, she shouldn't think about things like that.

James was there, just waiting, and her father fell back; he reached his hand out, so big and she took it; his completely enveloped hers.

He led her to the altar, up the steps, holding tight to her hand, taking her there.

She breathed in, feeling her tears go away.

The minister was speaking, saying words she didn't pay much attention to. "I do," she said simply when it was her turn, her voice emotionless.

She felt James' eyes on her.

He said those words too; his voice deep and passionate, a dark rumble that made her wonder what it would be like to wake up to that voice.

The thought came from nowhere; and she quickly dismissed it. They wouldn't be...he'd said…

They wouldn't be sharing a bed.

Why did she want him to change his mind about that?

"I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride."

She heard the words and then Jim was lifting her veil, gently pushing it back past her face. Her tears were long gone by now; she bit her lip as the veil was pushed fully back and Jim's hands were cradling her face.

"May I?" He breathed, and she could feel the minister's gaze on her; she quickly nodded.

His lips lowered and she gasped, because this was nothing like she'd ever expected. His lips were bigger than hers; soft but rougher than her own; his lips were warm, teasing, and his hands were so big, angling her face up higher, to better meet his.

She felt a gasp escape and her whole world seemed to freeze; she was reaching up, placing her hands on his shoulders, keeping him there and then there was a soft cough.

She felt dizzy as James pulled away; she could see the red on his cheeks and looked around her at the church watching them.

Oh god. How long had they been standing there, just kissing, in front of god and everyone?

How humiliating.

James was tucking her arm through his, looking down at her. "You look beautiful," he whispered.

"I don't care," she said finally in return, turning her face away.

He'd never seen such a sight, when Melinda walked down the aisle, looking so fragile, walking so smoothly.

The dress was amazing; hugging her figure so tightly, showing her off to perfection and the white lace against her skin was such a sight, so pure and yet so incredibly erotic.

He imagined taking it off of her.

And then he shook that image from his mind; that wasn't going to happen. They'd talked about this.

And then she'd said them, the words that would bind them together for the rest of their lives: I do.

And he'd repeated them and then he'd been told to kiss her.

Finally.

The tension over the past few weeks had been unbelievable; it seemed that every time he saw her he just wanted her more. Their lives had been filled with parties, showing their couplehood off to all of the right people so that it was less of a scandal.

She'd met his mother, but it had been a busy night and Faith hadn't really gotten a chance to truly speak to her; Jim supposed that he should be thankful for that because he wasn't sure what Melinda might have said in a long conversation.

They would have at least bonded over the women's suffrage movement. Jim was glad of that fact.

He'd tried to ask her about the occult, see what exactly she wanted to believe in, but the conversation had never gone anywhere; her eyes would widen and then she'd just shut down; he'd stopped asking after a point.

And all the tension...had almost been worth it when he lifted her veil, saw her beautiful face, saw her brown eyes staring up at him, her lips plump, ready to be kissed...ready for his kiss.

And he lowered his lips, and when they met hers, after all this time, it was like...he couldn't even describe it. He'd been kissing her cheek all this time, and it had been incredibly soft, and like kissing roses, but her lips were so much different; it was so much headier, so much more heated.

And it was so much more different when she was able to respond, when she was kissing back, when it was a two way street.

When they'd kissed so long that her hands had come to rest on his shoulders. When they'd kissed so long that he was dizzy. When they'd kissed so long that the minister had had to cough (more than once?) to get them to part. To get them to even notice the world outside of them.

He really wished he hadn't said yes to letting her bar him from their bed. Because judging from how she'd responded just now, he could have convinced her that it would be good.

But…

First of all he wouldn't do that, he wouldn't let himself be that man.

And second of all, he'd promised.

And third of all...most selfish of all…

He wanted her to be willing. He wanted her to ask for it, he wanted her to be the one to change her mind, he wanted her to be the one to give a little in this relationship.

The wedding party was at Tom Gordon's house; he had a ballroom of sorts, and there was food, and a small orchestra and dancing.

He held Melinda in his arms and they danced; he held her close, and they pretended they were in love.

She pretended.

He didn't have to.

The night was drawing to a close, and he could see the guests getting impatient; why hadn't they left yet?

He saw Tom looking at them, eyes insistent; they were to go across town to Jim's townhouse, and Jim felt the eyes of the crowd on him; Melinda was getting so tense, and he leaned to whisper in her ear.

"It's time to go, or there will be talk," he said, feeling her hand clench on his arm.

"Of course," she said, and he led her from the room.

They got into Tom's carriage; Gabriel was driving and Jim wondered what Gabriel would think if they weren't in a clinch upon arriving at Jim's townhouse, but just touching Melinda's waist when they got into the carriage to help her up had her tenser than he'd ever seen her...and that was saying a lot.

He let her keep her distance though, and when they got to his townhouse he scrambled from the carriage, glaring at Gabriel to make sure that the man didn't try to get down.

Because this was Jim's place. He was going to be the one who helped Melinda down.

He missed Gabriel's gaze going south, traveling over Jim's body in an expression of longing before the man turned stiffly away.

"I don't know who's going to be watching," Jim said softly. "But my servants and others on this block know that I'm a romantic."

"What?" Melinda wondered, but he was already reaching for her, sweeping her into his arms.

"I was always going to carry you over the threshold, my dear," he whispered, cradling her against his chest; she was so small compared to him. It was like carrying nothing.

And yet he could feel her every curve; her breasts were against his chest, and his hands shifted to readjust her weight; he could feel her thighs, supple and strong through the dress material.

He wouldn't make it past this night. Or if he did, it would all be from the grace of god.

He walked forward, hearing a gasp from her, feeling himself harden at the sound.

The door was swinging open; his butler was there, smiling a private smile, and Jim swept past him, going to the stairs, long legs carrying him straight up.

He could feel Melinda's breath escalating; her breasts expanded to press against his chest, make his breath catch in response, and they were inside his bedroom.

He didn't know whose idea it had been but there were candles lit; a fire in the fireplace and there were white satin sheets on the bed; the blankets were pulled back to show it.

"What are you doing?" She said, voice shaking, as he kicked the door shut with his foot.

He set her down, not wanting to let her go, but let her go he did; she was backing up and she was probably the first woman he'd ever seen stand in this room; he was never there when the maids tidied and the...encounters he'd had over the years had never been at home.

And she was dressed in white lace, and her skin was so creamy against it, and she was so beautiful; her luscious curls had started to escape from her tight bun and he just wanted to be with her, in every way possible, tonight, all nights.

"You said you wouldn't," she said, voice shaking and yet steely.

"I'm not going to, but we must keep up appearances," he began.

She was backing up, nearing the bed, and he couldn't breathe at the sight. Her legs tangled and she hit the bed with the back of her thighs; it took everything within him, every last ounce of restraint, to not move forward, pin her there, kiss her until she responded because he knew she would.

He'd proven that she would. It wouldn't be unwilling.

It wouldn't be unwilling. She'd welcome him, she'd be begging for him.

"Melinda—" He began.

"No, you don't get to say that," she said, jumping like she'd been shot when her legs touched the bed, darting forward.

But forward brought her closer to him again; it was a choice between him or the bed.

She chose the fireplace.

"This is not going to happen, you think I want it to happen like this?" She asked, voice shaking. "Sold like meat to the highest bidder? Don't you think I realize that most girls dream of this night? This is not what I dreamed."

She held a hand up as if to fight him off but he hadn't even moved.

And he was angry. He had made her promise. Why didn't she at least trust him to keep it? Why, after everything?

His eyes swept over her, from the neckline of her gown down to the hem on the floor, letting his gaze linger over each precious inch until her face was burning. "Maybe this isn't the wedding night I dreamed of either," he said, voice cutting.

And with that he left the room.


	5. Part Five

Melinda stood frozen in the bedroom for a long moment after James had left, finally sagging onto the floor, her legs giving way.

She'd been hoping...literally hoping that he would seduce her. Her words, about this being the night girls dreamed of…

That was supposed to prompt him to move forward, telling her that it wasn't too late.

And instead he'd left.

She saw herself in a full length mirror on the other side of the room, crumpled on the floor. She slowly stood up, going over to the mirror and staring at herself.

Wasn't she beautiful? The dress was hugging her almost to scandal, and she found herself running her own hands over the bodice, biting her lip.

Didn't she tempt him?

Why didn't he try?

He'd left.

She went back to the bed, throwing herself across it, sobbing her heart out. Was she really such a troll as to not even tempt her husband on their wedding night?

* * *

Jim sat in his study, unseeingly looking over the room.

He had a glass of brandy in his hand; he wasn't a drinker but he always had alcohol on hand for guests and such.

This was the first time he'd poured a glass for himself in months.

The liquor burned the first mouthful; then the glass sat in his hand, untouched; he didn't want his mind dulled right now, it needed to be sharp, it needed to remember.

He was a married man, he reflected, his thoughts going to the woman in his bedroom.

He was married and it was his wedding night and here he was, sitting in his study, drinking.

He looked at the glass in disgust, placing it down on his desk.

Melinda was so beautiful, he reflected, his mind going to all sorts of places. Her neck. He would love to kiss her neck.

Her cheekbones, up by her eyes; he'd brush his lips there, make her moan. He'd trace a path to her ears; she had such delicate ears.

And he'd slowly travel down; their lips would meet. His hands would be on her waist, his arms would slide around her. He'd lift her up, they'd go forward to the bed and he'd be allowed to undress her.

He felt his ears growing hotter, his mouth was dry.

She would be waiting for him, eyes wide.

His hands would go to the buttons on her dress, hidden by the lace on the back.

His fingers would be shaking but they wouldn't fumble; he would be far too intent to let that happen.

He'd place a kiss to her neck when he unbuttoned the first button. He'd place a kiss lower down with the second button.

He would kiss every piece of skin as it was revealed to him.

Her dress would slowly fall, and he couldn't properly picture her undergarments; would they be lacy...thin...unpractical…

Or would she be in a ribboned corset, her breasts elevated by the instrument, her waist only enhanced by it…

Her hips, her legs...would they be dressed in lacy bloomers, or silk...or no bloomers…

He couldn't breathe.

He didn't want to be this type of man.

If he couldn't have her, he wasn't going to imagine her as she might be. Not only would his mind never live up to the reality of her, it just felt unfair.

He stood up, hands heavy, movements stiff around the bulge in his pants.

He had no idea what he was going to do tonight, he reflected, rubbing his neck and walking to get a book.

No idea.

* * *

The dress was beginning to pinch, Melinda reflected dully, maybe an hour later, coming back to herself after the tears had finally stopped.

She sat up again, moaning a bit from how much tighter the dress seemed, edging off the bed and walking over to the mirror.

It was time to take this off, she reflected, trying to remember this morning and how exactly she and Andrea had wiggled her into it.

Buttons, she thought, her hand going to her back, reaching the first one.

But it was a stiff material; the buttons were very stubborn and the fit of the dress made reaching behind herself like this not only difficult but downright painful.

She dropped her arms, perplexed.

Well, she could return to the dress later.

She began to pull pins from her hair, biting her lip a bit when she got impatient and pulled too roughly.

This was painful. Beauty was painful.

She pulled the last one out; her hair tumbled down around her shoulders, curly and tousled and wild.

She looked around the room; her things had been moved here by servants, she supposed, sometime during the wedding; her hair brush was on a white vanity.

She wondered if the piece of furniture was new, sweeping across the room to take the brush.

The sleeves on the dress were tight; after a few minutes of struggling to get her arms up enough to properly brush her hair she gave up, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes again.

She sat on the bed, determined to at least get her shoes off, pulling at the buttons, yanking them off, leaving her in delicate white stockings.

She hitched her dress up, peeling back the layers, but the stockings were attached to her garter belt and she couldn't get at her waist.

She couldn't even get her stockings off.

She wanted to both laugh and cry from what a ridiculous picture she must make, a rich girl who wanted for nothing and yet couldn't even take her own damn clothes off in the evening.

She had never asked to be rich, she'd never asked for these 'blessings'.

She arched her chest, wiggling her arms around, desperately trying for the buttons again; she got one and then it was just too hard and she was left near tears, wondering what on earth she was supposed to do.

Andrea had this week off; Melinda had given it to her, assuming that she wouldn't need much help dressing because no one would be expecting her and James to leave his townhouse and therefore what would she need to dress for?

Undressing, however.

She hadn't considered that part of the equation.

She'd only been to James' house once before, a small party had been given there. She didn't remember any of his servants; did he have upstairs maids or just kitchen girls?

She couldn't ask his butler, surely not.

So who did that leave?

The answer slammed into her, leaving her gasping, heart fluttering, beating madly against her rib cage.

No, she couldn't.

She wouldn't.

Yet what other choice did she even have? Sleeping in this dress?

* * *

Jim had, maybe, dozed off. His world was filled with lace and warmth; his hands were encircling his wife's waist and she was leaning into his kiss.

A knock sounded at the door.

He jerked back to himself, staring around the room; probably a full hour hadn't even passed.

He wondered who it was, hoping it wasn't a servant poking around, seeing if the study was empty so they could clean it.

No. He'd sent all the servants home.

"Come in," he finally called, yawning a bit, covering his mouth, shoving his hair back off of his forehead.

The door creaked open; he turned and Melinda was standing there, still in her dress.

Her eyes were tinged with red, and she was biting her bottom lip, looking everywhere but at him.

"Melinda," he said, all breath whooshing from his lungs.

"James," she replied, smoothing her hands over her skirt. "I hoped you were in here. I wasn't sure."

He ran his own hands over his trousers, smoothing a crease. "Do you need something?" He asked, and felt his heart leap into his throat. By god. Had she changed her mind?

"I need your help with something," Melinda whispered, tossing her head a little as if to offset the words. "I, um…" Her cheeks were bright red, and Jim felt his body carrying him forward, until he was but a foot away from her.

All imaginings of her paled in comparison to the real thing. Her lips were so red, plump, and her skin seemed to glow in the firelight.

Her eyes fluttered shut; she had impossibly long lashes.

And her hair.

Oh god, her hair. She'd taken the pins out; her curls had tumbled around her shoulders, making her look tousled and ready for bed. Her hair framed her face so beautifully, in ways that he'd never seen before, never really thought about seeing, but now he knew he'd never stop thinking about.

"I need help getting my dress off," she said, all in a rush.

He couldn't breathe.

"I didn't think I would, so I gave my maid the week off, but I will have to spend the whole week in this wedding dress unless you help me," she finished.

Jim processed the words, his brain slow.

She was asking him, humbling herself, to undress her.

To undress her.

Just undress her. Undress her and nothing more.

He wasn't sure he could handle that.

He already felt a little lightheaded, eyes traveling over her without meaning to, and she was shifting from foot to foot.

How could he say no?

He could still see that she'd been crying; her eyes were red.

"Of course I'll help you," he said, and her eyes shot to him, anxious.

She was just a girl. A heartbroken, innocent girl who was asking for his help.

"Come on," he soothed, taking her arm. "Let's go back upstairs."

"No, I—"

"I'll keep my promise, Melinda," he said softly, voice low and rumbling; she flushed that he already knew what she was saying and nodded slowly, relaxing into the grip of his arm. "Are you tired?" He asked, as they left the study; he was holding her closely, gently, but firmly.

She just nodded; he again swept her into his arms, hearing her gasp.

"I'll keep my promise," he rasped, and she merely nodded, leaning her head on his shoulder as he walked up the stairs.

The door to the bedroom had been left open; Jim kicked it shut behind him and carried Melinda over to the white armchair, settling her into it.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he placed a finger to her lips, before moving around and starting to unbutton her dress.

He heard her sigh, one of relief, of pleasure to finally be getting out of this dress that had ended up being a prison.

And he...he bit back all sounds, feeling every drop of blood in his body rush to his already raging erection.

He shifted, so she couldn't see; would she know the meaning of it anyway? He wasn't sure. She was such an innocent.

There was bare skin revealed to him, and then undergarments; he slowly pulled on the shoulders of the dress and began to tug it down her arms, pretending that the only thing he was focusing on right now was the task at hand, and that he wasn't focusing on the perfection of her breasts under his lidded gaze.

She was still breathing rapidly, bringing her chest up and down, elevating the skin on display above the corset; it was a corset, though not tightly cinched.

He wanted to reach out and touch the globes that promised to be perfection itself; a handful for him and then some. He wanted to kiss and taste the skin there; he wanted to pull aside the lace still covering them.

"Stand up," he whispered, remaining kneeling on the floor.

She did so, and he slowly tugged her dress down over her waist; she was so tiny, so short; her chest was practically eye level now and he ducked his head, trying to breathe, following the path of the dress to the floor, but that was almost as dangerous; his fingers skirted her thighs, covered in sheer bloomers, and he could feel how warm her legs warm, how soft, how strong and supple.

God.

He wasn't sure how he was still moving sensibly, how he hadn't just captured her in his arms yet, pulling her close.

She seemed to sway towards him, reaching out with one hand to grab hold of his shoulder, clinging to it as though he were a port in a storm.

He loved her, he reflected, watching her step out of the dress.

She was wearing stockings; he could just see the garters underneath the sheer bloomers.

He placed his hand on her thigh, feeling her quake at his touch. Through the material of the bloomer, he unfastened one garter, looking up at her as he did so, their gazes hot, intense on the other.

He slid it down her leg; she was, it seemed, wearing a garter belt but he couldn't afford to fixate on that now, could he?

Her stocking came with it; he pulled both from her foot, and then did the other leg.

"I think I can get the rest," Melinda finally whispered, her other hand now on his shoulders shoulder; they seemed to be impossibly close and Jim was so ready, so eager to just touch her more, explore her.

He had to leave.

She'd want him to leave.

He would leave.

After…

After this…

He leaned forward, forehead touching her breasts, pressing his face into her stomach, using his hands to pull her close, just pressing against her; he heard her squeak of protest and surprise but she wasn't pushing him away; his hands were at her waist, sliding down; he could feel the curve of her hips and ass underneath his hands; her figure wasn't faked at all, she truly did have these curves under her dresses.

She had no need for this corset, he reflected, hands going to the ties, ready to let her out of it.

And then she was backing up, out of his embrace; his arms fell away and he closed his eyes, hearing her moving.

He tried to keep track of her footsteps, just staying there by the chair, kneeling there, waiting so long and finally standing up, when he could move enough to walk.

His eyes fluttered open, he felt everything stop again, because he could see a clear trail of everything she hadn't let him remove, and she was standing by the vanity, wearing one of his bathrobes, brushing her hair out.

"Where are you going to...sleep?" Melinda whispered, as he walked towards her; they were married.

She let out a little sigh in the back of her throat when he reached her, when his chest touched her shoulders.

He found himself wrapping his arms around her, burying his face in her neck; she smelled like lavender.

He pressed a kiss to her neck, his arms feeling her body, most definitely bare underneath this robe. His robe.

She was moaning, and he was feeling like he'd been drugged; he couldn't possibly leave this room.

"I'll sleep in the study," he finally rasped, pulling away.

He saw the clear surprise in her gaze, her shocked eyes in the mirror, and she was staring at him; their gazes met and held in the looking glass.

"Unless…" He left the word hanging and she was pulling away from him, shaking him off, going to the bed.

"Sleep where you want," she said stiffly, got in and pulled the covers over her.

He turned out the lights and left the room, making the oh so lonely journey to the downstairs study. 


	6. Part Six

Melinda drifted awake, feeling soft sheets and heavy covers.

She blinked, bolting upright and looking in confusion around herself at the unfamiliar room. She saw her clothes littering the floor; the dress was draped over the arm chair and everything that had happened last night flooded back in.

She remembered how it had felt when James had been holding her; the pressure of his hands on her legs...every thrilling moment when he'd been undressing her.

This was too much, she thought, shaking her head, cheeks hot.

She looked over at the empty bed, an ache briefly passing through her heart that it was empty. Why hadn't he tried to convince her? After those moments between them, where she'd felt closer to him than any other person?

She shoved the blankets back, going to the dresser, brushing her hair out and looking at herself in the mirror. She looked tired.

And she didn't have a maid to help her dress.

It appeared she wouldn't be wearing a corset today then.

* * *

Jim sat at the breakfast table reading his paper, noting the stories that had been included. They'd done a superb job on it; he'd commend Ned for it when he went back to work.

He had this week off.

Most of his colleagues and employees had been shocked it was only a week, but Jim had used the excuse of wanting to keep himself firmly ensconced in the newspaper world and not wanting more distraction than permissible.

Which most people didn't find to ring entirely true for Jim; he'd always tried to balance work and personal life, neither leaked into the other and, while he'd pulled a few late nights, he was not the type of man to cut his honeymoon short.

Especially since he was the type of man to be head over heels for his wife; when he looked at her like that, like she hung the moon…

There were some heads shaken at his office when they heard how quickly he'd be coming back. Shakes that he'd missed.

He'd cleared his throat as his cup of coffee was refilled; he took a drink with unseeing eyes and then heard his butler clear his throat.

He looked up, and the cup of coffee clattered to the table, just missing breaking.

Melinda stood in the doorway, dressed in a shirtwaist and skirt.

She looked beautiful; he'd never seen her in something so simple; he loved seeing her dressed up, but this was...this was so intimate, in such an odd way. Seeing her at home like this, unadorned, just Melinda.

But…

What was she doing here?

Most wives took breakfast in bed; taking it as their reward to not have to get up for breakfast; it was the distinction for the rich that single women ate at their father's breakfast table, but married women never stirred from their husband's bed.

Robert was hurrying to lay a place for her, making it seem natural, like he'd just been waiting for her to come down; Melinda was edging into the room, not looking at either man; Jim's paper was lowered just enough to see her, but still seem like he was reading it, and when she sat down, she was next to him; Robert had set her place near his.

"Good morning," Jim said, trying to forget how he'd seen her last night; trying to keep things simple and uncomplicated.

"Good morning," she said, taking a scone; breaking it apart with shaking fingers and spreading butter on it.

"Did you...sleep well?" Jim asked, voice lower than he'd intended.

Melinda's cheeks colored, and she met his gaze. "Yes, actually," she said, ducking her face away. "And you?"

He nodded, taking a drink of coffee; the hot liquid distracted him and he turned back to his cooling eggs, taking a bite.

"What are your plans for the day?" Melinda wondered. "Are you going into the office?"

He heard Robert pause, and Jim inhaled, looking up to meet his butler's gaze; the man left in an instant, closing the doors discreetly.

Melinda didn't even notice the butler's exit.

"I've taken the week off," Jim said. "I just got married, after all."

Her eyes widened, and she took a swift drink of tea. "Oh," she said finally, a few moments later. Her cheeks were bright red.

"I'll probably spend it in my study," Jim finally said. "Reading, writing, catching up on correspondence." He looked down at his plate. "We could spend it together, if you wished. Go for a ride."

"Oh, I don't know, honestly," Melinda said.

He nodded. "The house is yours," he stated, pushing his chair back. "Go anywhere without hesitation."

"Alright," she whispered.

And god knew he wanted to say more, touch her, reassure her in some way. "And I know we haven't spoken much about this, but anything of mine is yours. Spend anything of mine that you wish; I give you no purse limits."

Her hair was down, something he'd only seen once before, last night.

She looked beautiful, soft and undone. There were curls in her hair, natural curls that he wasn't sure he'd ever noticed before; soft waves.

She made such a lovely picture.

"I'll be in my study," he finally finished. "If you need me."

"Alright," she whispered, and he slipped from the room.

* * *

Melinda roamed the whole house, opening every door, accustoming herself to the floor plan. She avoided the study; she knew from last night exactly what door it was, and she mainly stuck to the upstairs.

It was a lovely house, elegantly decorated; she noticed a lack of warmth in most of the pieces on the walls, mentally changing the colors, wondering if he'd ever let her redecorate.

She wasn't bored, by any means; she was alive, feeling like she was sneaking even though she wasn't, even though she had full reign over this house now, she was still avoiding servants, ducking into doorways and keeping quiet when they passed.

She was in his closet, running her fingers over his silken ties, touching stiff trousers.

She wondered where his library was. He was definitely the type of man to read a lot, she reflected, and wandered from the bedroom. His bedroom. She shivered a little, knowing that there were certain hours of the day—rather, night—where she'd never dare to enter this room.

It was time to find another room that she'd actually feel comfortable in, besides her bedroom. She wasn't going to spend her entire life in bed, hiding away from the world. Even if, at this moment, staring at James' clothes, she wanted to stay in his bedroom forever. Or at least until he came in.

Or maybe beyond that.

She shivered, moving out from the closet, seeing the bed in the center of the room. His bed wasn't all that different from hers, but oh god.

She found herself walking forward, slowly lowering herself onto the bed, stretching out, moving her arms over her head.

Maybe it was just because she'd been so uncomfortable last night, but oh goodness, his bed was a lot more comfortable than hers was.

She sighed, slowly getting back to her feet.

She was going to find the library, she decided, and left his bedroom in a hurry, creeping down the front stairs, determined to try every door.

It wasn't that large a house; there were no wings by any means.

She wandered around the downstairs, trying a few knobs, and some, disappointingly, led to closets.

But finally she turned a knob and saw bookshelves. Excited, she pushed it open the rest of the way, seeing mahogany, and shelves that were packed from side to side with books.

She wondered what books lined his shelves. All histories, things only a newspaper man would need?

Or maybe some biographies. She liked some biographies.

She moved slowly into the room, losing herself looking at the shelves, running a hand over some of the spines.

Her father's library had never been large, and while James' couldn't match some, it was definitely double Tom's.

She licked her lips, absently wishing for some water, reaching for a book that caught her eye: Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. A roman philosopher, she thought; hoped that she wasn't wrong.

She took it, and looked around her, behind her, for a chair to sit on, hoping for an armchair but she would have gladly accepted a stool.

She took in the rest of the room; it was large, and the bookshelves were set up to form a sort of maze. A maze that Melinda decided to follow to its end, hoping that there would be a chair there.

She let the door swing shut behind her, and moved farther into the room, the book clasped in her hand, and breathed in, looking at the full windows, through which sunlight beamed.

She was going to like this room; it was already her favorite in the whole house.

She turned the final corner and found a charming scene: a fireplace, whose logs were unlit; a collection of two armchairs and a desk.

A desk at which James sat.

She inhaled sharply at the sight of him; he had removed his jacket, his shirtsleeves were shoved up, and he wore glasses.

He was reading a letter; it looked like he was writing one in reply as well, and he looked up at her, at the sound she made.

The sound he made in reply was similar to her own inhale; they were both surprised.

"I'm sorry, I thought this was the library," Melinda stuttered.

"It is," James said. "The library is the same room as my study."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Melinda repeated.

"Don't be, you aren't disturbing me," James insisted, starting to push back his chair, but she took a step back in alarm.

"Oh, then don't get up, don't let me bother you," she stammered. "I was just looking for a chair. An armchair, and I found some."

She lamely gestured to the two chairs, and then almost jumped into the nearest one in hopes that James wouldn't get up if she did.

He slowly lowered himself back into his seat, considering her closely.

She bit her lip, flipping the book open, reading it with unseeing eyes.

She could feel him watching her.

And then, finally, he lowered his gaze back to his correspondence.

Her eyes finally adjusted to the words on the page. _If your cucumber is bitter, throw it away._

The words startled her; so flippant, so odd.

She found herself bursting into shocked laughter, and James' eyes were again completely on her. "What are you reading?" He asked curiously and she showed him the book title.

He nodded, thoughtful, as if about to comment on it but shook his head, smiled at her and returned to his correspondence.

She read a few more lines, finding quite a few messages that rang true to her heart,

 _Whatever the world may say or do, my part is to remain an_ emerald, _and keep my color true._

That was very true, painfully true.

She slowly closed the book, almost not realizing that she was letting her mind drift. For so long now, she'd been fighting against society's expectations; of what being a woman meant, of what she had to do, of what she couldn't do.

And she'd fought against her gift, this fantastic ability that let her speak to the dead. She'd hated it for so long, rebelled against it, and then somehow, it had become the thing that she clung to. The fact that she could see the dead, talk to them, help them, become their mediator with the living had become so very important to her; it gave her life purpose.

She found that James was entirely engrossed in papers upon looking up; it almost seemed like he'd forgotten that she was there, and she took this opportunity to study him.

He was so tall, so broad shouldered. The muscles on his bare forearm rippled as he went through his correspondence, occasionally reaching up to straighten his glasses.

She wanted him, Melinda realized, feeling her mouth go dry. She wanted to find out what it would feel like to have James Clancy make love to her. She wanted to feel his body covering hers. She wanted his hands on her. My god, how much she wanted his hand on her body, on her arm, her shoulders, her thighs...her breasts. She wanted his lips on her neck. She wanted to walk over there right now and just sit on his lap, wind her arms around his neck, snuggle into him and then just kiss him until kissing wasn't enough and he'd make love to her, right there on the desk…

She realized, quite suddenly, that he'd stopped reading and was looking at her looking at him, a quizzical look on his face.

She quickly ducked her head, and he turned away too.

She found a second book; this one she managed to actually lose herself in, as much as she could with James just a few steps away, and they spent quite a pleasant day together in his study.

Even if none of what she wanted to happen did. Even if she spent the entire time wondering what he was thinking, wondering why he didn't desire her, wondering what was wrong with them.

At the same time, it was still nice to just sit in silence, reading and writing, and living in their own little worlds.

At the same time, Melinda didn't want her own world anymore.

They left together, once the butler (Robert?) had come in to tell James that dinner was ready as soon as they dressed for it. James held open the door for her, and she walked close to his body.

As they ascended the stairs, James placed his hand on the small of her back, ever so lightly, very gently. "I'm glad you didn't leave," he said simply, his words a rumble.

Melinda shivered, moving away from his touch to her own door, her hand closing over the knob. "So am I," she told him and ducked inside.

A ladies maid waited there; it seemed James had taken care of that problem.

Melinda sighed.

She didn't want her own world anymore. She wanted to share in his, and she wanted him to share in hers.


End file.
